


Tear in the Ocean

by merle_p



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, England (Country), F/M, Femdom, Grief/Mourning, Historical, Loss, M/M, Mention of Past Relationship(s) - Freeform, Multi, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Rain, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: “Don’t stop,” she says quietly, and he cannot read her tone at all.Above him, Nicolo emphatically shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine, we can …”“I saiddon’t stop,” she interrupts him, sharply, and no, this is not her politely granting permission, this is a demand, an order. A command.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, past Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Comments: 42
Kudos: 395





	Tear in the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty comfort porn with a bit of femdom sprinkled in for good measure. This canon makes me write stuff, IDEK.

“Your hair is still wet,” Nicolo smiles, running gentle fingers through Yusuf’s damp curls.

Yusuf sighs. “Everything is wet,” he whines into the curve of Nicolo’s neck. “The tent is wet. The entire country is wet.”

“Do you miss the desert, my love?” Nicolo asks, and _oh_ , even his laughter sounds a little wet, and when Yusuf looks up and runs a hand over Nicolo’s cheek, he can’t tell whether the water on his face is raindrops or tears.

“What do you need?” he asks, because focusing on making Nicolo happy is better than thinking about how much he longs for the sight of sand dunes tinged with golden orange by the light of the setting Sahara sun.

And Nicolo humors him, lets himself be distracted easily. “Your mouth,” he says against Yusuf’s lips, his hands still in Yusuf’s hair, “can you …”

“Yes, yes,” Yusuf breathes, and shuffles backwards on the thin woolen mat far enough so he can slide the hem of Nicolo’s tunic up over his hips. He reaches for the string holding up his breeches, but Nicolo swats his hands away impatiently and lifts his pelvis, pushing his pants down to his knees.

His cock springs free, flushed pink already and erect, and Yusuf wraps a hand around it, irrationally grateful to find the skin dry and hot against his palm. He leans in to kiss the tip, slides the foreskin back to lick around the glans, and is just preparing to take the full length when there is a rustling sound from the direction of the entrance to their tent.

Yusuf feels Nicolo’s movements still under his hands, and he pulls back hastily, heart in his throat. When he turns around, Andromache is standing in the opening, a tall, dark figure against the bleak light of the grey afternoon.

“Andromache,” Nicolo says anxiously, sounding just as guilty as Yusuf feels. They have been so, so careful, but Yusuf knows that with the lives they are living, it was only a matter of time until they made a mistake.

They have set up camp on the coast of Suffolk, north of Ipswich near Deben River: close enough to both the ocean and the city, remote enough to keep their heads down and stay out of sight. Their days are spent with frantic, pointless searching, their nights are filled with fitful, hopeless dreams.

It has been two months since they rescued Andromache from being burned alive.

It has been two months since they lost Quynh.

The weather has been cold and chilly, the fine mist seeping into every porous surface, their hair and clothing in a constant state of dampness that Yusuf is starting to feel deep down in his bones. Some days he can hardly imagine ever feeling warm and dry again.

He has come to hate England with a passion, for its weather and for the things it has done to the people he loves. He mourns Quynh, who is lost at the bottom of the ocean; he aches for Nicolo, racked with self-loathing over another atrocity committed in the name of the God he once swore fealty to.

Andromache is the one who terrifies him: She is a ghost, haunting the shore in silence, a banshee, screaming her anguish into the wind. She is here with them, yet often it feels like she is not fully present, and Yusuf worries that when Quynh’s body sank into the water, a part of Andromache’s soul disappeared with her.

They hover over her helplessly, not knowing how to comfort someone who doesn’t want to be consoled. They have stopped touching each other in her presence: before, he wouldn’t have thought twice to kiss Nicolo’s temple or pull him into his lap, wouldn’t have hesitated to open his legs for Nicolo to slide in between after being woken up in the middle of the night. Now it seems wrong to flaunt the comfort they draw from their love while Andromache is still so freshly grieving hers.

But their restraint doesn’t mean the desire is gone, in fact, the opposite is true. Every day they spend looking in vain for Quynh makes Yusuf more desperate for Nicolo’s warmth, makes him yearn for the feeling of Nicolo’s skin under his palms, the drum of Nicolo’s heartbeat against his ear, the sensation of his lover inside him, around him, for any sign that yes, _yes_ , Nicolo is alive and still at this side.

And Nicolo reacts to him with equal fervor, the same sense of urgency palpable in the way he reaches for him, opens up for him, sinks into him, whenever they fall into each other’s arms.

So they have started to live on stolen moments, on furtive encounters, hidden touches and secret smiles, have started to wait for the moments they know Andromache to be elsewhere before they embrace each other with a desperation that is new to both of them.

Today, Andromache left to check their baskets for crabs, to collect what was meant to be their main meal for the day, and knowing the path she would have to take to the beach, they assumed she would be gone for an hour at least. But she must have forgotten something, or perhaps she merely capitulated to the dreadful rain, because they have barely realized that they are alone by the time she unexpectedly returns.

“Apologies, Andromache,” he says hastily, torn between getting to his feet to distract her from what they were doing, and staying where he is to shield Nicolo’s exposed cock from her eyes.

“We didn’t think …”

“Don’t stop,” she says quietly, and he cannot read her tone at all.

Above him, Nicolo emphatically shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine, we can …”

“I said _don’t stop_ ,” she interrupts him, sharply, and no, this is not her politely granting permission, this is a demand, an order. A command.

Yusuf stares up at her in shock, but her face is hidden in the shadows and he cannot see her eyes. He glances at Nicolo, who looks confused, uncertain, but after a moment nods almost imperceptibly.

Yusuf clears his throat. “What do you want us to do?” he asks evenly, and Andromache finally steps fully into the tent, the flap falling shut behind her, plunging their makeshift quarters into a gloomy half-light.

She sits down on her mat, cross-legged, her back against the canvas, and contemplates them from half-lidded eyes.

“Put your mouth back on him,” she says, her voice devoid of inflection, as if she is telling him to put more wood on the fire, not suck his lover’s cock in front of her.

He hesitates only for a second before he obeys. He lowers his head and wraps his lips around Nicolo’s cock, which has flagged a little but is still half-hard. Under Yusuf’s ministrations, it fills quickly, and soon Nicolo is pushing up against him in helpless stuttering movements, not all that different from when it is just the two of them.

In his periphery, he senses rather than sees Nicolo lift a hand, hesitantly.

“Can I …” Yusuf hears him ask carefully, and realizes with a jolt that the question is not directed at him.

“You can touch his hair,” Andromache allows benevolently, and Yusuf feels Nicolo’s hands sliding into his curls, a familiar, comforting weight.

“Tell me what it feels like, Nicolo,” she continues more firmly, and Nicolo’s fingers momentarily tighten against Yusuf’s skull.

“It’s … I don’t know how to describe it,” he says hoarsely. “It’s wet, hot …”

“You can do better than that,” Andromache chides mildly, and Nicolo groans, sounding equally frustrated and aroused.

Nicolo is not a talker, never says much when they fuck, and Yusuf has gotten used to that centuries ago, but hearing him struggle so hard now for words lights an unexpected spark in Yusuf’s loins.

“I love the feeling of his beard against the inside of my thighs,” Nicolo finally says, a little desperately, and Andromache hums approvingly. “Soft and coarse at the same time. And, ah, how can he can breathe when he takes me in deep like this …”

“Was he the first one?” she asks, and Nicolo makes a small sound, not quite a yelp, when Yusuf’s fingers clench around Nicolo’s thigh possessively.

“No,” he moans, as if the word is being ripped from his throat, his hips bucking up against Yusuf’s mouth, and Yusuf slides his hands up to Nicolo’s hipbones to hold him in place, so he can be the one who sets the pace.

“Tell me,” Andromache demands, and Nicolo shudders under Yusuf’s hands.

“At the monastery,” he confesses, his voice breathless, “there was another novice who wanted … but more often it was the other way around,” he rushes, almost as if he can’t really help himself. “Some of the older monks, they liked my mouth …”

He trails off with a choked groan when Yusuf scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin of his cock, not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough to remind him whom he is with, here, now.

“Was it like this?” Andromache asks, pries mercilessly, and Nicolo sobs, tightening his grip on Yusuf’s hair to pull him closer, never mind that Yusuf has already taken him as deep as he physically can.

“No, no, none of them did …” He is rambling now, almost feverish, far past making sense. “It was nothing like this,” he says, “when Yusuf touched me, it was …”

His voice gives out, his fingers twitch, and when Yusuf slides a hand down the underside of his cock, he finds his scrotum already taut, a clear sign that Nicolo won’t last. Yusuf cups his balls, rolls them gently in his palm, and Nicolo gasps and spills into his mouth, trembling under his hands while Yusuf sucks him dry.

“He put my pleasure before his own,” Nicolo finally says softly, his fingers gentle again against Yusuf’s hair. “He didn’t believe what we were doing was a sin,” he adds, and Yusuf is glad that his face is still buried in Nicolo’s lap so he can press his forehead against Nicolo’s thigh and doesn’t need to worry about his burning eyes.

At some point, the rain must have picked up again: in the silence that follows Nicolo’s words, Yusuf can hear the tap-tap of fat drops against the roof of the tent, and when he finally lifts his head, he can see the rain coming down in sheets through the narrow gap between the flaps that Andromache didn’t bother to shut properly.

He sits up, giving Nicolo the space he needs to fix his clothes, suddenly nervous and unsure of what to say. Andromache has uncrossed her legs but is otherwise sitting motionless, like the statue of an ancient goddess, and he still cannot tell what is going on in her head.

“You are not done yet,” she suddenly says, and he blinks into the semi-darkness, disoriented and confused.

“We are … not?” he asks carefully, and she pointedly drops her gaze to his lap.

“Does this look like you are done?” she asks, almost impatiently, and Yusuf suddenly notices that he is still achingly, impossibly hard.

“I don’t need –” he starts, but she shakes her head in a way that does not allow for protest.

“Get to work, Nicolo,” she says. “It’s your turn.”

Nicolo looks at him, their eyes locking for a long moment before Nicolo crawls over to him and presses his face against Yusuf’s groin. Yusuf exhales, the sound of frustrated surrender, and fumbles with his breeches to give Nicolo what he is asking for. 

As he rises on his knees, his cock brushes against Nicolo’s mouth, and Nicolo sighs softly, his breath a feathery caress against Yusuf’s bare skin. Then Nicolo licks his palm before sliding his hand down to the base of Yusuf’s cock, and Yusuf curses when Nicolo noses at his scrotum, then gently sucks one of the balls into his mouth.

“Look at him,” Yusuf says roughly, and haphazardly winds the hem of his tunic into his belt to give Andromache a better view of Nicolo’s face.

“Look at his lips, they were made for this.” His fingers against Nicolo’s cheek are tender, a silent apology for the crude words, but Nicolo moans eagerly and opens his mouth wider to take in more of him, so he knows that he is forgiven, if there was anything to be forgiven for.

The palm around his cock is moving unsteadily, Nicolo too focused on what his mouth is doing to keep up a regular pace, and Yusuf links his own fingers with Nicolo’s, using Nicolo’s hand to stroke himself.

“Tell me about him,” Andromache says softly, and Yusuf tries to catch her gaze across the tent before lowering his eyes to look down at the top of Nicolo’s head.

“I pity the men who were there before me,” he admits, then groans when Nicolo’s tongue laps at his balls. “To have this once and be foolish enough to let it slip through your fingers must be worse than not having it at all.”

His free hand traces Nicolo’s cheekbone and brushes the hair out of his face. “The first time we lay together,” he says quietly, “I already knew I wasn’t going to let him go.”

There is a sudden strangled sob that does not sound at all like Nicolo’s voice, and Yusuf anxiously glances towards Andromache’s corner, heart racing, suddenly worried that he has taken things too far.

“Tell me more,” Andromache says, a faint tremor in her voice, and in the half-light Yusuf sees her slide a hand under the neckline of her tunic, reaching for her breast.

“I tried to mark him,” he tells her, resisting the urge to avert his gaze. “But every bruise I kissed into his skin would disappear almost as soon as I put it there.”

He tightens his fingers around Nicolo’s hand on his cock and thinks of the ephemeral bite marks and scratches, the quickly fading love bites they have left on each other over the years.

“I’ve drawn on his skin,” he pants, feeling the heat pool in his sacrum, idly wondering how much longer he will be able to last. “I’ve written epics onto the canvas of his body, with henna, with ink, with my own blood, but the water washes them all away over time.”

“So mark him now,” Andromache orders calmly. “Show him he’s yours.”

At his feet, Nicolo keens in response, a wordless plea for him to comply, within seconds Yusuf is gone, his mind wiped blank by a wave of pleasure as he paints Nicolo’s face with his come.

He feels dazed, almost drunk, and only dimly notices Nicolo’s hand against his waist supporting him. He leans in to press their foreheads together, feels the fresh wetness on Nicolo’s skin that is too sticky to be tears or rain.

Eventually, though, he sits back on his heels to look at Andromache, who seems to have fallen silent again. She is swaying forward just a little, as if to study them more closely, and finally she is near enough for him to make out the expression on her face.

There is a sense of calmness that has returned to her features, closer to serenity than she has looked in weeks; but her eyes are still shuttered, and she looks bone-tired rather than satisfied or content.

He glances at Nicolo, who is looking at him intently, an open question in his eyes. Yusuf lifts his shoulders oh so slightly, and Nicolo tilts his head in agreement before he leans forward to rest a careful hand on Andromache’s thigh.

The look that crosses her face is one of genuine surprise, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to her, and that more than anything strengthens Yusuf’s resolve to proceed. He slides across the muddy ground until he is kneeling in front of her, and patiently waits for her to let her bent legs fall open, the plain tunic sliding down her legs into her lap, revealing her strong pale thighs.

“You don’t – “ she starts, but doesn’t continue when Nicolo settles in behind her, sliding into the space between the tent wall and her back. She lets herself be pulled against his chest, her eyes fluttering shut, her legs opening further as she sinks back.

She tends to wear boots and men’s breeches underneath her long tunic whenever they leave the camp. But this morning she waded into the ocean and took off the soaked piece of clothing as soon as they returned to their tent, and so when Yusuf pushes her tunic up further, only bare skin and dark curls are greeting him.

It has been more than four centuries since he touched a woman, but in his mind he still hears the echo of Quynh’s voice, describing to him affectionately and in too much detail all the things Andromache enjoys. And he cannot be Quynh, he knows he cannot bring her back, but he can’t help but hope that she would not look too unkindly upon his feeble attempt to make up for her absence during this brief moment in time.

He lowers himself down to the ground, the movement a physical memory of a time when he used to pray, and spreads her labia with careful fingers before he leans in to press his tongue into her. She exhales sharply at the first flick of his tongue, and he pauses for the beat of a breath.

Her hand comes down to rest against the nape of his neck. “More,” she says, hoarsely, her thumb lightly stroking his skin.

He gently sucks on her clitoris, slides a finger into her and finds her wet, tilts it upward slightly as he pushes a little deeper, and is rewarded with an uncontrolled twitch of her hips.

There’s some movement now above him, the shuffle of heavy linen dragging against coarse wool, and when Yusuf glances upward, he sees that Nicolo has pushed down the loose neckline of her tunic, revealing her chest. Andromache’s head is resting on Nicolo’s shoulder, and his hands are gently cupping her breasts, squeezing the soft flesh carefully before his fingers find her nipples, teasing her tenderly.

Yusuf takes in the image for a moment before he lowers his head again. This time when he puts his mouth onto her, she pushes her hips against him, setting the rhythm, and he follows her lead to let her take them where she wants to be.

She is strangely quiet now that her own body is the focus of their ministrations, the only sound her heavy breathing, barely audible over the background noise of the rain, and so the only warning he gets that she is nearing her climax is the way her grip suddenly tightens on his neck.

He slides another finger inside her, fucking her faster until his knuckles are slapping against her with every move, and keeps lapping at her clitoris until her hips lift higher and she utters a single low desperate moan.

She spasms around his fingers, and he keeps moving them inside her a little more gently until he finally feels her muscles relax. He looks up her body to see her with her head thrown back against Nicolo’s shoulder, her chest heaving, and Nicolo stroking her hair, murmuring endearments or perhaps prayers into her skin.

She allows Nicolo to caress her for a few precious moments, then pushes herself up and gently but firmly shoves him away.

“Kiss him,” she orders, and Yusuf doesn’t know which one of them she is talking to, but in the end it doesn’t matter, because when he leans in, Nicolo is already there to meet him halfway. Yusuf presses their lips together softly, then slides his tongue into Nicolo’s mouth, and Nicolo makes a tiny sound at the unfamiliar taste before he curls his own tongue against Yusuf’s, welcoming him.

They break apart too quickly, embarrassed to get caught up in each other once again, but when Yusuf casts a guilty look at Andromache, she is gazing up at them fondly, and for once there is no bitterness in her eyes.

A gust of wind presses into the tent, and she shivers slightly, pulling her tunic back up to her neck, and Nicolo climbs to his feet and returns promptly with two heavy coats, one of which he drapes around Andromache’s shoulders before he covers Yusuf with the second one. Empty-handed, he stands over them forlorn for a moment until Yusuf reaches for him, then he gratefully lowers himself down and curls up against his side.

“You know you don’t have to hide from me?” Andromache finally says softly, and her voice is no longer the voice of a general, just that of an exhausted woman who has seen too much and yet has to go on.

Nicolo makes a move as if to touch her but then aborts the gesture and drops his hand into his own lap.

“We didn’t want to offend,” he says awkwardly, and Andromache chuckles quietly, her first sign of genuine amusement in weeks.

“It doesn’t matter if you take off your clothes,” she says, still smiling, although sadness is already lurking again in the corners of her mouth. “You only have to look at him, and I can always see it in your eyes.”

She wraps the coat more tightly around herself and sighs.

“There are days when I look at you and resent you, and there are days when it’s the only thing that keeps me upright.” She breaks off abruptly, swallows, and when she looks up at them again, unshed tears are glistening in her eyes. 

“We will keep looking for her as long as it takes,” she says evenly, “but I do know the odds. It’s just us now,” she adds quietly, “and you are my – “

She never continues, and Yusuf wonders what she meant to say: Her subjects? Soldiers? Friends? Brothers? Neither of them sounds quite right in his mind, but none of them would be wrong.

“We are here to help you carry the weight,” he says, and then startles when she suddenly leans forward to kiss his forehead gently before doing the same to Nicolo.

“I will try to remember it,” she vows solemnly, and they grow silent, listening to the English rain beating a steady rhythm against the outside of their tent.


End file.
